Addendum
by 1Past and Present1
Summary: Silver offers Whisper a chance to relive a shred of her past, revisiting a night when the Diamond Cutters were still alive.


Been ill. Feeling better. Please enjoy.

* * *

"I've moved on, mostly. Tangle helped. And Jewel. Everyone else, too. S'just… Might reopen a few old wounds, going back, now."

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

"S'fine."

"I just thought–" Silver stops himself, flustered. How insensitive he must seem. Of course it was stupid of him to offer. He wishes he could fall into a crack of the earth or be sucked up onto the starry sky and disappear either way, until a tail curls about his lower back, silky and warm.

"But it would be nice," Whisper says in her dulcet undertones, seated beside him, comforting him with this rare physical token, "to see them, again."

He looks up from his bony knees and meets with her smile, her fangs, viewed in profile, because she's gazing down at her mask, contemplating the complex innards.

"I wish… I'd been more open, y'know. When I had the chance."

Wisps are surrounding the two, basking them in their light.

"To tell them that I love them. In person. Not a recording. Not the same, of course. Couldn't be."

He wants to give her a hug, but knows not to.

"More than images and voices and memories. To touch, to taste, to smell. When it comes to people… My most neglected senses."

He hears how she pauses to take a breath.

"And maybe…"

He absentmindedly leans a little closer, so that their shoulders are touching, too. It's less than a hug, but it's more than nothing.

"It might help."

"Yeah. Maybe."

* * *

"I know this is a lot to ask."

"Probably won't make the future any worse." Whisper turns over the mask in her hands, beholding the way the light pools over its lens. "Probably won't change much, at all."

Silver's heart hurts for her.

* * *

"We were celebrating. Felt like a victory over Eggman. It was paltry, really, I know, now. But on that day, we were gods."

"You, um, partied?"

Whisper shyly runs her fingers through her hair. "You could say that."

Silver chuckles softly, a gesture intended to console, which she reciprocates.

They're almost in harmony and it doesn't last long.

"Most of us drank. But not Mimic." This name makes the wolf's lip curl with distaste, showing more of her teeth. "Bastard never drank. Said he preferred a clear head. I said I admired him for it. I meant it and he smiled at me. I smiled back. I hate myself."

The hedgehog knows that this person has done something unimaginably cruel, something permanently damaging, leaving Whisper less of the woman she used to be.

"But the rest of us, we drank… 'til we laughed."

Silver wonders what her laugh sounded like, then. Compared to how it must sound, now. If she can still find it in herself to laugh.

"I still remember bits of it. I remember enough." Whisper draws the Wisps toward herself, cradling them in her arms and her lap, as she continues softly, "I passed out in a stall. No one will know, until they find my body, and by then, I'll be gone, with you. Gives me a few hours."

He listens to his hammering heart. It almost drowns out her voice.

"I remember the time. The numbers were a bright, searing red. They hurt to look at when sober, but when drunk, I could stare at them and I did. Dunno why. Guess 'cause I could. So, I know the time. And I kept a diary. Used to care about dates, birthdays, before they died and I burnt it. So, I remember the day. The month. The year."

He is nervous.

"Send me then."

"Okay." He hides it.

* * *

"Whisper," Smithy booms in his jovial way, leaning heavily on the scuffed old table to grin toothily at her quiet, subtle approach. "That was a quick tinkle!"

"Ew."

"Or did you just freshen up a bit? Say, you look…" The lion hesitates, unsure of how exactly to describe the changes he sees in the wolf, blinking blearily, intoxicated gaze studying her. "Kinda different? Is that just the booze?"

"Older," Slinger murmurs to himself whilst stirring the contents still sloshing about the bottom of his bottle, but he is overheard.

"Don't be a jackass!"

"I wasn't saying so to be rude." The ocelot manages a hazy, gentlemanly nod to the lady in the room. "It's simply an observation made by a man with a keen eye, even when drunk."

"You've, um, lost weight. Not saying you needed to, of course." Smithy is trying to spare Whisper's feelings, but he's confused. "How didn't I notice that?"

The wolf hadn't considered these details. She isn't offended at all, since it almost feels like this day never ended. Like she never lost them. Even then, though, this loss is highlighted as well. And it's a little hard to keep a calm, friendly countenance within the surreal experience of standing here, sharing the air with two of her dead comrades, her friends and family, suddenly alive, again, just as they are in her mind and mask. "Shit."

"Now, now, Whisper, don't listen to Slinger! You know what he's like."

"Must be the lighting, eh? Yeah, Smithy's right. Ignore me."

"I'm always right."

"Whatever. Have another bottle. Might make me more tolerable."

"I love you."

The lion and ocelot are both rendered wordless by this quiet, hoarse admission.

"I love you very much."

Smithy recovers first, saying in his fatherly way, "Well, we love you, too, pup."

"You're alright," Slinger adds with a wink.

Whisper moves again, almost stumbling over herself in her eagerness to reach them, tears welling behind the sealed lids of shut eyes, threatening to burst forth and expose her in cold, anguished blue shards.

The lion grunts a masculine grunt as the wolf draws close enough to his chair to drape her arms over his broad shoulders and mane, depositing a light kiss on his cheek. He doesn't mind the affection, but the tone of it bothers him in a way he can't describe.

"Whisper," the ocelot manages just before she reaches him, too, accepting her embrace with a brotherly pat on the back, made awkward by his concern for her. "What's this about?"

"I just said it." She kisses his cheek. "I love you."

"You're acting cuter than usual, is all. How much did you have? How are you still standing?"

"Slinger, let the girl express herself."

"I didn't say it was a problem, old man!"

"We've been over this. I'm not old. Whisper, have another. You're far too upright."

"No, thanks." Emotions make the voice even smaller than before. "I've had enough."

The men watch her leave, worried and unsure.

It was easy bypassing the security measures to get here, the wolf notes as she slinks through the hall like an intruder trying to casually not be seen. She is one of them, but she can't help feeling like an impostor, here, imitating herself to infiltrate and trick them.

A lot like Mimic.

* * *

"This is unsafe."

"I'm still nimble. Hello, darling."

"Yes," Whisper says with all the affection still left in her torn, bruised reserves. "Hi."

Claire smiles aimlessly, yet it is inevitably directed at the heavens. She is spread out on her back, gazing at the stars, listening to the ocean, mentally tracking the wolf's approach. "Your steps have changed."

"Oh?"

"You don't seem very drunk, anymore."

"I sobered up, before."

"And I sense you're hiding something."

Traversing the rooftop with ease, Whisper draws to a gradual stop beside Claire, standing over her, so much larger and more threatening, so out of place, even if they used to belong, together.

"It's strange, but… I suppose a lot about you is suddenly strange. You're not the type to lie to me or sneak around me. Is something wrong?"

"S'the booze."

"You just lied, again."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"I don't have to remind you that you're safe with me."

"No. I'll never forget that."

The howled monkey sits up slowly, as if dizzy, and pats the space beside.

The wolf kneels, accepting a familiar caress to her cheek.

"It feels like you're in two places at once."

Whisper can barely hold herself together, being touched by Claire, like this.

"Unless…"

"Unless?"

"You're actually a disguised Mimic, fucking around, again."

"I'm not him."

"That's the whole shtick."

"I'm me."

"Mind games."

"Lemme prove it."

"Open your eyes."

The wolf hesitates, stiffening, and the howler monkey is beautiful in a torturous way, drawing her sweet breaths, pretending to be suspicious for the sake of a game, unaware of the harm.

"He never gets the eyes right."

With a flutter of lashes and a cascade of tears, Whisper obliges.

"Why are you so injured, love? Why are you so afraid?"

"I love you."

"Oh, my darling." Claire isn't taken aback by these words, instead bringing their foreheads together, nuzzling. "I love you, too."

"I miss you."

"You see me every day."

Their hands meet, fingers interweaving.

"I should've just said it, even once, in all those chances I had."

With a light tug, they fall, together, collapsing in on each other, in on themselves.

"Mmph. Claire."

"Whisper. I've got you."

"I wanna stay."

* * *

Mimic lowers his book slowly, smiling his treacherous smile, but it'd fool any of them.

Whisper wants to kill him. She's picturing it in her head, all the ways she could.

"Nice lipstick."

"I don't-"

"Though, it's a little off the mark."

She touches the corner of her mouth, where Claire remains.

"About time." Mimic is curled up in his bunk, preferring the quiet, the solitude, eerily akin to the future wolf, but with even fewer ties. This he does not know. "You two have danced together a long time. All it took was a little mirth and some alcohol." His smile deepens, unmet by his eyes. "Congratulations."

She grits her teeth, fangs digging in. This damned octopus should die. But if she killed him, how would she explain his murder to the rest of them? To Silver? She promised.

"Is something the matter?"

And would she still meet Tangle, someday? A bead of sweat slowly pools within the crease between the wolf's brows. Would there be an acceptable excuse to touch hands and share smiles and sometimes rest their foreheads together? It's so similar, this feeling for the lemur, to what has been felt for the howler monkey. Whisper is trying to keep her breaths regular, controlled. How could she? And how can she risk losing someone else? Muscular trembling, still hot from before. Without the loss that Tangle tried clumsily to fill with her soulful laughter, her understanding silence, her lingering kindness, would she have any reason to return in an altered timeline, a timeline with Claire? It should be so simple. Save three lives at the cost of one and, very likely, this friendship.

"What is it?" Mimic asks quietly, smile gone. He doesn't suspect that he is in danger. He has no idea.

"Nothing."

"Are you feeling unwell? I can escort you to-"

"No."

He is uneasy and it's thrilling, to make him squirm.

In the following moment, Whisper has somehow made her way to his bunk. She's sitting beside him, her back pressing to one of the metal supports, the mattress thin and hard.

He's polite enough to shut his book, granting her ownership of his full attention. "Do you want to talk?" The saddest part is that he is, or was, a confidant.

She reaches out. Like she's searching for some piece of the man she remembers, the one she considered a sibling. Maybe she can still save him.

His cruel eyes follow her fingers as they close in, but he doesn't move, otherwise, tentacles tensed. "What're you–?"

"I love you."

He gawks, almost humorously, as her hand captures his cheek.

She swore not to forgive him, to maintain his crime as freshly committed in her mind, but as she has this chance, for a change, she takes it.

He says nothing and this silence, searing and cold at once, says everything.

Her claws scrape his cheek as she takes back her hand.

He winces and watches her leave. Only realises he dropped his book when his eyes finally leave the door, gaze sinking.

* * *

"How'd it go?"

"Fine."

Silver offers his arm, although he'd hoped for more. "Ready?"

Whisper gently takes it, unthinkingly squeezing him for some sort of reassurance. She wishes she had paid herself a visit in the stall, but it's too late, now, and it seemed worthless at the time. One last glance at the base, before it became an abandoned ruin.

"I can wait a bit if you want."

"No need."

"You sure?"

"Yes." She turns back to him, allowing him to see the mark Claire left in the corner of that smile. "Ready."

* * *

This is a more concise attempt to respond to a specific review. After all, if you're gonna accuse me of some sort of offensive conduct (immediately after Christmas), I have a right to defend myself.

_There is nothing wrong with people who choose not to drink alcohol._ Yes, this story depicted Mimic as sober, after all - but Mimic is a villain for other reasons, because he simply was a traitor, as is canon, and Whisper resented him for being disjointed because of his clearheaded betrayal, not because of his refusal to drink alcohol. Whisper's comment in no way referred to the aversion to drink as a sin or as in any way wicked. Jesus Christ.

_If you choose not to drink alcohol, that is absolutely fine. _It is beyond the intended scope of this story, to interpret it as a sweeping declaration that sobriety somehow equals badness and that drunkenness equals goodness, or that drunkenness equals badness and sobriety equals goodness. We are taught, hopefully, to think past this superficially judgmental level when we reach a certain age. People are far more complex than what they consume/don't consume/how much.

_Maybe don't accuse/vilify people so readily. That shit's offensive, man._

I hope this settles any misconceptions there may have been. Take care and thanks for reading.


End file.
